OUTCAST Ops: African Firestorm

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bakir Riyad watched two western women swim in the pool a dozen feet from where he reclined on a deck lounger. Both wore modest one-piece swim suits, but were young, attractive, and blonde. For a few seconds, he felt himself stir, but just as quickly, he clamped down on the feeling. Not here, not now.

The Jebel Ali Beach Hotel was close to the Palm Jebel Ali, one of Dubai's two artificial archipelagos that extended into the Persian Gulf. It was adjacent to both the Jebel Ali Freezone and the Port of Jebel Ali, the largest man-made harbor in the world and the largest harbor in the Middle East. The hotel catered to tourists and businessmen alike, with a spectacular view of the gulf and no shortage of amenities.

If any of his men on the Northstar Venture or Saad el Melik could see Riyad now, they would be stunned. He was bare-chested, wearing sunglasses and a pair of swimming trunks, looking nothing like the hardened soldier his men knew him as. He had checked into the hotel earlier in the morning, using the identity of Jalal Al-Hamdani, a successful Saudi businessman. The clerk had welcomed him back and wished him a pleasant stay.

This wasn't the first time Riyad been in Dubai, where, as Al-Hamdani, he was known as the owner of an import/export company. He already had an office in the freezone, staffed by fellow ICA followers who not only ran it at a profit, but funneled weapons, supplies, and intelligence to the ICA though the network of shipments they managed. He'd used his time in the city to carefully put his pieces into place. And he was nearly ready.

The plan he had conceived had been in the works for several years, but when word about the warheads being transported reached Riyad, he had immediately jumped on the chance to seize them. The basic plan was still the same, but the warheads would enhance the damage against the target.

He glanced at his watch, a Rolex, in keeping with his cover as a rich businessman. He still had time before the zhur, the noon call to prayer, to see of couple of customers, then after prayer, to check with a couple of suppliers. After dark, he would meet Tarik, the head of the ICA cell in the city and make sure there were no problems on this end. Tomorrow, he would appear at the office and get an update on how it was doing, then back to Somalia the day after that.

The time for Allah's followers to claim the world in his name was now. Today, Israel. Tomorrow, Europe, Russia and Asia. Then South America and finally, North America. Only then would the world would know peace and justice.

But first it would see fire and death, starting here in ten days.

The maqha, or coffee house, was located near the Dubai Internet City, the Dubai Media City, and ironically enough, the American University in Dubai. Tarik had reserved a back room for the meeting, and after both had settled in, sipping the Saudi coffee from small handless cups called fenjan. In the background, the strains of a song in the Khaliji style, heavy on the strings of the oud and the beat of the tabi drum, acted as a layer of white noise. On the low table between them, a couple of dishes of candied fruit and dates waited, along with the dallah, the specially made coffee pot. In addition, Tarik had set up a pair of white noise generators in opposite corners of the windowless room, and dismissed the waiter. Since the coffee house was a natural place to meet and discuss business in a relaxed atmosphere, and both men were regular customers, they were left alone.

Riyad let the smoky bitter smell of the coffee fill his nostrils as he sipped the fenjan's contents. "Excellent as always," he said.

"Of course," Tarik replied. He was a gaunt man with a narrow face, high forehead and an exposed Adam's apple. Like Riyad, he wore a business suit, though his was less expensive than his superior's. With his wire-rimmed glasses and general demeanor, he looked like a nervous accountant. The reality was while Tarik was an accountant and ran the business for Riyad, he was also an experienced fighter, bomb maker, and cold-blooded killer. Outside of Ilshu and Narsai, Tarik Al-Kali was Riyad's most trusted subordinate.

Tarik took a sip of his own coffee. "Did you secure the shipment?"

Riyad smiled. "Yes, just as advertised. And on your end?"

Tarik's smile was cold. "The Americans will be here the day after tomorrow," he said. "They'll be staying at their usual place."

"How long?"

"My sources say ten days."

"That is good. My Pakistani team believes they'll have the shipment ready to deliver before the Americans leave."

"I'm glad. I’d hate to be late with the delivery.”

“Is Dwight still heading up the American team?"

Tarik shook his head. "He was reassigned. Harry's heading up the team now."

"Ah. I hope he's as agreeable as Dwight was."

“There’s one other thing of interest I discovered.”

Riyad raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“It seems The Americans will be visited by the president of their company while the team is here. Harry’s hosting a meeting between his boss and several local companies.”

“Really? That is indeed most interesting. Can you find out when?”

“I should be able to find out.”

“Good.” Riyad finished the small amount of coffee in his fenjan and held it out for a refill.

"Why don't you fill me in on the office gossip?"

After the meeting, Riyad walked back to his rental and drove back to the hotel. As he did so, he thought about the information Tarik had given him. The American aircraft carrier Harry S. Truman and its escorts would be docking at port the day after tomorrow and staying for ten days.

In port, the carrier would be a perfect target.

The original plan, codename DESERT WIND, had been to use the Saad el Melik as a firing platform for a conventional cruise missile attack on the docked aircraft carrier. The ICA had two Babur cruise missiles, the newest weapons system in the Pakistan Army. The two missiles were built "off the books." There was no way for the Americans or anyone else to know about their existence. The ICA had smuggled both the missiles and Masood's team out of Pakistan a month earlier.

But two missiles, even against an immobile target like a docked aircraft carrier, wouldn't do enough damage to cripple the ship unless Allah smiled upon them.

And he had.

Riyad smiled. Even though both nuclear warheads were, at best, thirty kiloton yields, it would be more than enough to cripple or destroy the Truman, kill hundreds, and damage American prestige in the area. If the Truman's own nuclear weapons or reactors were breached, such an event would cripple port operations and cost the Emirates millions in lost revenue.

And if the timing was right….

The President of the United States’ death, along with the deaths of other leaders, would cause chaos on a level undreamed of. If the attack could be coordinated with the meeting, it would do more damage than a thousand strikes to cripple Islam’s enemies.

And who would receive the blame for all this? Riyad chuckled aloud. That was the best part! With a little manipulation, the Iranians would become the number one suspect. The bodies on the Northstar were being stored in an empty freezer onboard. Before the attack, they would be brought out and posed as if in battle. After the attack, the Northstar would be set on fire, leaving just enough evidence to point the blame at the Iranians. The enraged Americans would focus on them, giving ISIL that much more time to consolidate their battlefield gains.

As he pulled into the hotel's parking lot, Riyad calculated how long it would take the Northstar to make the trip from Eyl to the UAE coastline. Four and a half days at twenty knots to cover the eighteen hundred miles…Another day and a half for him to complete his business here, and a day to make his way back to the Northstar.

Yes, he thought…a week from today, the Americans would understand the ICA's real strength.